Raven s Rise
by eohippus
Summary: For anyone who read "The Movement of Bees" (or anyone else who wants to know how Sherlock and Mary met in my universe). Loosely connected with "Raven s Wisdom". For my beta, Impractical Beekeeping, and my friends on FF.
1. Christmas Eve

_I should really by finishing "A Night to Remember", but this has come up time and again all year and wanted to be written._

_Well, here it is. A Christmas present for my beta, Impractical Beekeeping (you can beta on whenever convenient ;)._

_May season 3 be another glorious one!_

_Merry Christmas to all of you,_

_eohippus_

_P.S.: This is NOT a cosy, cuddly tale, but deals with Sherlock´s addiction - so please be warned :)_

* * *

**Christmas Eve**

* * *

_"If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever enough to be crows" (Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, mid-1800s)_

* * *

„Get out. Hurry up."

Hands which have explored his bare skin earlier tug roughly at his wrists, attempting to pull him into a sitting position. His clothes land in an untidy heap beside him. He is too dazed to react, his limbs too heavy to obey.

"Come on." The man hauls him up, and he stands, swaying and shivering. His sweater hits his face, followed by his coat, which he manages to catch. With great effort, he wraps himself in the fabric. It smells faintly of cigarette smoke and chemicals, and of too many nights spent in clubs and stranger´s flats. The smell is soothing while the music floating from the living room is annoyingly syrupy and tawdry. He can clearly recall how infuriated he was to be pestered with kitschy Christmas tunes, but also, bitterly, why he stayed.

"Here. One for the road." A tiny polystyrene bag is being thrust into his hand, a door opened, and the man pushes him towards the steps of the Edwardian entrance.

"Now leave," the stranger orders, fear and urgency in his voice, and Sherlock staggers down the stairs, clutching the iron fence tightly to keep his footing. A silver light in the sky catches his attention, and he looks up. The stars twinkle back as if to mock his ungraceful retreat. It is freezing although the fierce gusts of earlier have abated, and he can taste the river, salt and earth carrying the sea´s greetings. He inhales deeply, suddenly longing for carefree summer days at the rugged Brittany coast, a time when he wasn´t yet aware how his ever-observant mind could turn against him.

A cab passes, and he raises his arm to alert the cabbie of his presence. But the shadow behind the windscreen only shakes his head and passes. Sherlock´s mind, slower than usual but nevertheless in high gear, assures him that no cabbie will take an inebriated stranger who can´t walk straight. There are not too many cabs available on Christmas night anyway. He´d better walk home.

Walking proves more difficult with every faltering step he takes. He struggles on, desperately clutching onto the fence. Snow starts to fall, veils of silver in the streetlight´s glow reminiscent of the beautiful patterns the world forms itself into whenever he is high. His heart beats too slowly, a foreign object threatening to rob him of oxygen, but he keeps on moving.

The iron rods are gone, replaced by a reassuringly warm presence. A door. He is instantly reminded of a larger entrance, flanked by statues, opening into a marbled hall, the promise of a fireplace in a room thriving with books. He shakes his head, determined to rid himself of these images of his past. These days, he hardly ever seems to be able to get warm anymore. And the rooms of his family manor are no longer accessible to him

His breath is coming in shallow waves now, the effort of getting enough air leaving him powerless and shaking. After a few more paces, his knees give out, and he loses his hold on the iron bars. He hardly feels the pain of the impact, his mind blissfully blank as darkness closes in on him, shielding him from the cold winter´s night and his beloved city.

A soft whirring as black feathers are stirred and the shuffling of bird´s feet on the pavement startles him back into consciousness. He needs to see and understand. But what he observes is too bizarre to register as reality. There´s one black bird picking at his sleeve while another is keeping watch at a safer distance, head cocked, onyx pupils glinting with curiosity. A crow and a raven. He has always been fond of corvids, feeding them breadcrumbs and biscuits whenever he fled to one of London´s parks to distract himself from the vicious circle his life had become. Or, a long time ago, with Victor. The old, familiar ache pierces his heart, and he groans.

The raven hops nearer as if it had noticed his distress, head cocked as if pondering him. The streetlamp´s light casts an unearthly shade of silver on its feathers. Sherlock´s mouth curls in a wry smile as he remembers being called Raven on more than one occasion, for his graceful air and black curls. He always countered with contempt and sarcasm, to hide his vulnerability.

Shudders run through his legs, and a profound tiredness threatens to drown him. If he closed his eyes now, his shallow breathing might just cease entirely. He makes a weak attempt to push himself up, but a croaking voice, ancient and wise, disrupts his disassembling thoughts.

"He will be. But he must choose life first," the raven says. With a flap of its wings, it disappears into the sparkling curtain of numerous lights over the river. The crow follows closely. Sherlock squints into the too bright light, suppressing the illogical urge to call the creatures back, to beg them not to abandon him. He staggers to his feet and sways, his hands on his thighs, and spots a dark shape on the ground. Carefully, he lowers himself down again, his trembling fingers touching the smooth case of his mobile.

If he closed his eyes, he could simply get back to sleep. The raging machine of his mind would stop forever. He would finally be ordinary.

"He must choose life first. But I am afraid he might not."

The ancient voice is whispering persistently in his head, culminating into the very essence of the raven itself. Ravens do only talk in fairy tales, he reminds himself. There is no magic in this world. He can´t be saved.

A sharp pain runs through his torso, and he gasps for breath, suddenly terrified of collapsing in this god-forsaken spot. His fingers touch the mobile´s screen, and a row of digits lights up. He stares at the familiar number he assumed he had deleted a long time ago, and finally pushes the button for call.

Only when he listens to his brothers concerned, reassuring words does he realize how scared he really is. Tears of relief start to pool in the corners of his eyes. He sinks back against the brick wall, starting to drowse.

Relieved, he ceases to fight the tiredness, and his eyes drift shut. The shadows of two black birds telling each other a long-forgotten tale guide him into the darkness.


	2. Hauled from the pit

**Hauled from the pit**

* * *

Questions. A penlight´s beam in his eyes. His vision is blurred, but his hearing elated, the sound of busy steps and concerned voices over-pronounced. He hardly feels the stranger´s hands on him, is only dimly aware of being placed onto a stretcher, of IV ports and equipment adjusted.

A face hovers over his, and he squints into the too bright light.

"Let´s hope the Narcan works," one of the ethereal voices says, and a hand touches his shoulder, reassuringly.

He responds by blacking out again.

* * *

He dreams of flying. The night is gloriously dark, the wind cold, and he shivers beneath his layers of black feathers. Spreading his wings, he follows the voices calling from above, beckoning him to soar into the clouds with his companions. Although he prefers solitude, he is curious to catch up with them, to perceive what they can see. Roofs, chimneys, antennae, cars are spread out beneath him, his sharp vision catching every detail of London life. To study the intricate patterns doesn´t hurt him as it usually does. There are promises of riddles to solve, cases to take, and he is happier than he has been in a long time. His heart picks up the rhythm of the city, the thrumming of its never-ceasing pulse, and his soul is singing in tune with the wind.

A falcon´s cry diverts his attention, and he peers up. The sleek creature is diving towards him, its beak open as if in a greeting, its blue eyes watchful, but friendly. The falcon´s cry reverberates in his head. As soon as he attempts to answer it, it turns into a human´s voice, calling out his name.

A beam of light intrudes his vision, blinding in its intensity, and he angrily flaps his wings. The wind abates, and he cries out as he dwindles into the all-encompassing brightness.

"Hurry up, we are losing him." The words are urgent enough to call him back, but he is steadily drifting farther away from the light. A sharp, sudden pain propels him back, and his eyes open as he draws in a breath. The light is even more intense now, and he can distinguish several human´s breathing and feels their hands on his arms and chest. The pain comes and goes in waves as his chest expands, swallowing his whole being, and he blacks out again.

* * *

He wakes to a familiar, educated and vaguely familiar voice. His wings have vanished, the wind has abated. Tepid, stale air meets his nostrils, carrying the stench of disinfectant. His pulse speeds up, as the urge to get away from all these disturbing sensations sets in, and the voice stops. Firm steps approach him, and a strong hand on his shoulder anchors him to reality.

"Mr. Holmes?" The stranger´s voice is urgent and commanding. Annoyed by the intrusion – he has never liked to be touched – he opens his eyes.

"What is your mother´s Christian name, Mr. Holmes?"

"Violet." His voice is foreign to him, unsteady and hoarse as the raven´s croaking of his dreams. He would rather ignore the hand on his shoulder, the annoyingly dull questioning, but the doctor is professional and persistent. He seem obviously satisfied with Sherlock´s answers, and finally turns and nods toward another man who has held himself in the background.

"He´s been lucky," the doctor says. "You can talk to him now. But keep it short, please."

Hesitating footsteps. The faint rustling of exquisite garments. A careful hand on his wrist. Sherlock tries to blend out the familiarity of both sound and touch, in the vain hope that he be left alone. He feels worn out from the short conversation already, and he doesn´t expect a conversation with his brother to be relaxing. Mycroft, as always, doesn´t seem inclined to leave him in peace.

"Sherlock." The elder Holmes expression is grave. "Welcome back among the living, brother dear." His voice is even more collected than usual, betraying his profound relief.

Sherlock, who only now fully comprehends that he is safe and in hospital, moves his head marginally to gain a better view of his sibling. Mycroft is immaculately dressed as ever, but dark smudges under his eyes indicate at least one sleepless night.

"You found me," Sherlock rasps.

Mycroft nods. "Because you called," he replies, and Sherlock remembers. The club. The stranger and his promise of a pure batch. Atrocious music. A raven and a crow flying into the night sky over the Thames. His desperation when he realized something was wrong with his last hit. Mycroft´s number lighting up unexpectedly on his mobile.

He heaves a deep breath, and Mycroft instantly reads the question in his eyes.

"They will keep you until they are sure there will be no further complications. After that, a rehab facility in Surrey will take you," he says.

Sherlock closes his eyes. He is granted a short time of peace before he is being detained, then. No, he corrects himself fiercely, he wanted this to happen. He wanted Mycroft´s help, and he has decided to stop. Whatever his disturbed mind will be suggesting in the future, he must try to remember this. "Choose life," an ancient voice whispers in his head, reassuringly, and he frowns, remembering onyx pupils scrutinizing him.

Mycroft reads his frown as fear. "It will pass, brother mine," he assures him, his tone surprisingly compassionate. "I would assume a speed detox…"

"No, Mycroft." Sherlock hates how feeble his voice sounds when he needs all the resolve he can muster. "It won´t work. I need it to work this time."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at him, as if ready to remind him of former arguments. Thankfully, he hesitates and simply nods. "You should rest. We can talk about this later."

Had Sherlock any strength left, he would certainly give voice to his amazement that the secret British Government has gone all soft and forgiving with his black sheep of a brother. Sentiment certainly doesn´t fit Mycroft, he thinks as his eyes drift shut and sleep claims him.


	3. Fear and Loathing

**Fear and Loathing**

* * *

"Mr. Holmes?"

The young woman´s voice is slightly tentative, but firm. Sherlock doesn´t associate it with anyone of the staff who has seen to him so far. He turns his head, abandoning the sight of the large oak trees outside which has been his solace the past two days, and regards the newcomer. As always, he perceives all the details, but is too worn to analyse them properly. The woman is most probably a new nurse. No, he corrects himself, considering her careful approach but competent demeanor, more likely a doctor on her first assignment. He wonders why she has been sent to him, as he is already considered one of the more difficult patients. She is most probably covering for someone else.

He closes his eyes. The Naloxone is still making him dizzy, although the dosage has been lowered and painkillers dim the worst symptoms of withdrawal. Worse than the dizziness and nausea is his persisting fury at being detained. It doesn´t help that he is very well aware his anger is absolutely irrational, considering he literally begged Mycroft to rescue him a few days ago. But rage at being incapacitated smolders in his heart nevertheless, causing him to snap at the staff and turn his back to the door anytime one of them enters, pretending he doesn´t want their attention and care.

He doesn´t want this new person, too. At least she has so far refrained from examining him and elaborating on his health status. If he kept his eyes closed, she might simply leave him alone in his misery. He swallows as he realizes that not only doesn´t he want her help, but might well be past the point of caring whether anyone cares about him.

"I´m Dr. Mary Morstan. I have been assigned to you as your therapist." She phrases her words carefully, obviously sensing he is already raising his walls. Her steps are light but firm as she approaches him, and when she continues the kindness in her voice surprises him.

"I think the best way to start is to fill you in on your recent report and the course of treatment Dr. Williams is suggesting." There´s a hint of hesitation in her voice as she continues. "I can come back later in case you don´t feel inclined to discuss these topics at the moment. You only need to let me know. You are still recovering from a near overdose, after all."

It takes Sherlock a few seconds and some effort to push himself up to face her. He scans her features, taking in every detail, which makes her flinch and blush. People have reacted to his scrutiny similarly before, mostly women who had come to the hopelessly wrong conclusion that he was flirting with them. It would take only two or three well-placed remarks, and she would be gone, outraged by his deductions. But she neither pushes her hair behind her ear nor smiles. She simply swallows and holds his gaze, and he finds himself unable to attack her with a well-placed scathing deduction.

"I do know exactly what I am recovering from," he quips instead, and she smiles and nods.

"Certainly you do, since it is not the first time," she counters, silencing him completely. His attempt to stare her down instead is met with raised brows. He sighs and sinks back into his cushion. Fleetingly, he wonders whether the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes are a indicating amusement or concentration.

When he finally breaks eye contact she steps nearer, drawing a chair with her. She sits down, her hands clasped.

"You probably already know we´ve administered Naloxone to reverse the effects of your last hit. Dr. Williams´s recommendation is to take you through controlled withdrawal, as he fears you are not in form to cope with the symptoms with lesser medication. We´ll proceed with a Methadone treatment, followed by therapy sessions once you´ve come clean and your condition has improved." Her eyes trail his gaunt features and restless hands. "We can still apply a mild sedative, if you prefer to…"

Sherlock is keenly aware of her green eyes and her fiddling with her pen, borne of nervousness rather than impatience. She radiates compassion, which is nearly too much for him to bear. Oddly enough, he finds that he regrets having to disappoint her.

"No," he cuts in. He starts to shiver and shifts, picking up one of the corners of his blanket in an attempt of grounding himself. He avoids her gaze, his eyes travelling toward the window and the oak trees outside.

"That´s what my father and brother would want for me. But it will never work. Firstly, because I don´t want to be a specimen to their private little experiment." He sneers. "Secondly, because this… process needs to be as unpleasant as possible for me to… comprehend."

Dr. Morstan shifts, the fine lines on her forehead telling him that he has raised her curiosity.

"Do you really think so? You don´t need to punish yourself for your addiction, you know. Rehabilitation is not atonement. It is a healing process."

He winces, and her eyes widen as she realizes she has hit the mark. "I… don´t intend to punish myself," he states, quietly. "I just need to see… to understand…" He swallows, his fingers fiddling with the hem of his blanket again. "I need to understand how the drugs have… changed me. I can´t gather data when I´m not lucid."

She frowns. "You are afraid," she replies and gets up. "That´s perfectly understandable."

"Oh, I am most grateful for your insight," he spits, suddenly enraged. "Surely you have already seen a vast amount of hopeless cases which did miraculously better after you assured them of your understanding and your unwavering faith in their ability to heal themselves. How you would do that, after having just graduated from medical school and only six months in a position as a drugs counsellor and doctor, is beneath my comprehension. You´d probably better get back to your dog and your horny, but cowardly boyfriend. He is never going to move in with you. There are many more young and far less challenging women to chase out there."

Mary stops dead, her face turning crimson. She opens her mouth, but shakes her head, her fists clenched. After a few long seconds, she heaves a deep breath.

"So this is it. This thing you do with everyone who threatens to cross your boundaries." She smiles as he stares at her with stormy eyes. "You´re quite famous with the staff for your insults and magical insight in their private lives, you know. But don´t assume this will deter me from my task. I´ll be here to help you get better – as long as your decision, that is." She turns to leave, but turns back to him, her hand already on the door.

"Ah, and concerning your abilities of healing yourself, it is you who needs to keep faith in yourself, not me."

Sherlock´s gaze follows her as she leaves. As much as he never intended to allow a stranger insight into his feelings, he is intrigued. This Dr. Morstan has seen through the walls of his fortress, right into his heart.

He sinks back into the cushions, blowing out a breath he hadn´t realized he was holding. He fervently hopes he will be strong enough to keep his resolve. He never was, in the past. But never before has he been so tired of the vicious circle of want and withdrawal. Never has he been so scared of losing himself.


	4. Refuge and Rescue

**Refuge and Rescue**

* * *

Three days later Sherlock finds himself in the clinic´s grounds, huddling in front of a wooden hut which strikingly resembles his grandfather´s beehives. He can´t quite recall how he arrived in this particular spot, but he remembers pacing his room earlier, his skin crawling with want. He had watched the crows in the trees outside assembling for hours, too nauseous to move from his bed, his very essence burning with envy of their freedom. Doctors and nurses arrived in a steady pattern, and he tried to ignore their presence, losing track of the time. In the nights, the walls around him seemed to fall into slumber like a huge, powerful beast, protecting him.

It is calm here, too, the waxing moon not quite hidden behind a thin layer of clouds, the icy air coaxing him into taking slow, steady breaths. Orion is keeping watch over the barren trees, and Sherlock´s body, his transport, as he prefers to think of it, has thankfully stopped to demand a distraction. Only a dull ache in his ankle reminds him that he tripped earlier, in his eagerness to solve his problem. He remembers running to his grandfather´s beehives in Brittany during glorious, endless summer holidays, and the bees swarming, but unlike his family never bothering him. To interact with people was getting increasingly tedious with every passing year. As soon as he realized he wasn´t supposed to understand and deduce more than the others he attempted to morph into a socially more acceptable version of himself. A spitting image of Mycroft, in fact. But he slipped too frequently and badly, and gave up on this futile experiment.

Sometimes, he compares Mycroft to a queen bee. The corridors outside his brother´s silent office are thriving with busy clerks, ready to serve state and country. Mycroft falsely assumed he could keep Sherlock on track by extending his authority beyond the walls of Whitehall and monitoring him. Sherlock, in turn, remained too stubborn to accept he had become a liability to his brother. Ever since Victor, actually.

Do you remember your time at the sea? his inner demon coaxes. He huddles tighter into his sheet, his head bent, willing the voice to stop. His heartbeat accelerates as he is transported back to a dimly lit room and Victor´s look of pity and remorse.

"Sherlock?" The bright light of two torches startles him, and he scuttles nearer towards the wooden structure behind him. He hisses as his ankle explodes with pain.

"Are you alright?" Dr. Morstan crouches next to him, her hand close to his, but never touching. She stalls the two orderlies who have accompanied her with a raised hand. Her gaze travels down to Sherlock´s right arm, and he follows it. A trail of dried blood runs down his forearm from where he ripped out the saline drip.

Her hand is already on his elbow and turning his arm gently to examine it for further damage. She frowns as he shifts and groans in pain.

"Hey there," she prods, gently. "Why are you here? Needed some air, I suppose?"

He stares at her, lost for a reply. She senses his reluctance, and smiles. "In case you haven´t noticed, it´s winter. Not quite the right season to go out for a walk clad in a sheet."

The numbness in his toes and finger suddenly makes sense. "Obviously," he retorts, his voice hatefully feeble.

"I can imagine it must have been too much," Mary says, and he snorts.

"Oh, can you?" Her eyes bore into his. "I doubt your medical school required you to experience the effects of recreational drugs. Therefore, how would you know?"

"By using my imagination," she replies.

"Imagination is nothing without data," he hisses back. "Why can you pea-brained people not see that assumptions are getting you nowhere?"

Mary leans a bit forward and regards him with a frown. "That´s the point, isn´t it? You can´t remember. That´s why you´re insulting me – you are scared." She gently taps at his left hand which is clenched in a tight fist. "I bet you can´t explain this, too."

His hand opens as if on its own accord, and he stares at the small cylindrical object on his palm, horrified.

"Where and how do you think you did get that?" Mary asks softly.

Sherlock looks up. "From one of the medical cabinets? I´m quite adept at picking locks. Doesn´t it only matter that I did?" He shrugs. "You will need to report me."

"I certainly won´t," she replies, sharply. "Just hand it to me."

His desolate expression is turning into one of puzzlement. "You are saying…"

"That I found you at the hives, freezing. Not more."

He stares at her, unbelieving. "There are rules to this. Surely you wouldn´t want to risk your newly acquired position to the irresponsible actions of a junkie," he spits with contempt. "What do you want? Sex?"

Mary, shocked into silence, ponders him and heaves a breath. "Let me tell you something. Anyone who fights as hard as you to retain his sobriety deserves a chance. And as much as you are attempting to outwit yourself to be able to get back to wallowing in your misery, you will not make me believe that you actually want to get ejected. If I considered you a lost cause, I´d certainly wouldn´t want to waste any more time by listening to your rants."

Sherlock studies Mary´s face and finds nothing but seriousness. His self-loathing abates, blown away by her honesty. Relief floods him as the vial drops into her hand.

"I can´t walk back," he announces. "Sprained ankle."

"I was thinking of helping you rest anyway," she concedes. "You are upset and confused, and you´ve hurt yourself. We could carry you back, and you´d be able to relax."

Sherlock regards his bloodied arm. The euphoria of having escaped the asphyxiating atmosphere of his room has been replaced by a profound tiredness. The promise of sleep, of the absence of thought overrides his fear of losing control.

Mary is careful and gentle, but still his arm trembles in her grip, and he wraps the sheet tighter around his torso in an attempt to shield himself. One of the orderlies hands him a blanket, and he quickly covers his trembling shoulders.

Orion, the moon and the barren trees blur and disappear, and in his dream he is flying again.


End file.
